


Sparks

by Photogirl1890



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 21:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Photogirl1890/pseuds/Photogirl1890
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times B'Elanna Torres lost her temper. And one time she didn't. From pre-Voyager to season six. P/T eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I hadn’t heard of such a thing as a ‘5+1’ until I read one of Alpha Flyer’s Avengers fics. So, that’s where the idea for this initially came from. Thanks AF.  
> This was a really fun format to write in.  
> Many thanks to Delwin for the beta reading and constant encouragement that helped me get this done in record (for me) time.

Daniel Byrd was a stupid little _petaQ_.

Miss Malvin said not to use that word, but it was true, and telling lies was bad, too. That’s what the stupid teacher had said when B’Elanna told her it was somebody else who’d smashed Daniel Byrd’s clay model of Zefram Cochrane’s _Phoenix_ by throwing it out of the art room window after Daniel dropped red paint on B’Elanna’s shoes and said it was bloodwine. She must always tell the truth.

Well, the truth was, Daniel Byrd was brainless. He copied all B’Elanna’s answers in math class, but Miss Malvin was never looking when he did it, and when B’Elanna had tried to stop him by grabbing his PADD and deleting his entries, who had got in trouble for ‘disturbing the lesson’? Not Daniel Byrd.

He looked … picture-perfect. He had bright blue eyes and shiny blond hair and a totally smooth forehead. The teachers all loved him because he sucked up to them (though he still called Miss Malvin a fat cow behind her back). Daniel Byrd was the captain of the junior soccer team, the winner of the class all-round achievement prize, and the kid that always made his parents proud.

Someone drew a targ on the playground in white chalk during recess. Except it wasn’t really a targ because targs didn’t have giant ridges on their foreheads. But this one did. It also had a “B” and a “T” scrawled on its back. Then it rained and the chalk washed away before any of the teachers could notice it. The next day when Miss Malvin started talking about Terran marine life and showed a picture of a sea turtle, Daniel Byrd started giggling and poked B’Elanna in the back with a ruler, whispering “Miss Turtlehead”. Miss Malvin didn’t hear him. But she heard all right when B’Elanna’s chair scraped back on the floor as she turned around to thump him on the shoulder. Hard. The little _petaQ_ cried until his face was red and his nose was snotty, and all the girls fussed over him because they all wanted him to pick them to go with to the end of year party.

B’Elanna got sent down to the Principal’s office. Principal Brott – an unusually miserable Bolian - asked why B’Elanna was always picking on Daniel Byrd. B’Elanna said nothing. What was the point? Either Brott wouldn’t believe her, or he would believe her and Daniel Byrd would get told off and then be even more horrible. Or Brott would tell her to just ignore the name calling, which she tried to do, but sometimes she got so mad she wanted to punch Daniel in the face and break his perfect nose and put black rings around those bright blue eyes. The Principal said if it happened again he was going to have to speak to her parents. _Parents_. B’Elanna didn’t bother to tell him that he should be so lucky. She did wonder what her mother would do if she found out about the trouble.

As the only Klingon on Kessik IV, her mother didn’t like to be the centre of any fuss. When she wasn’t at work, she mostly stayed away from the other residents of the colony. She might be pleased that B’Elanna had stood up for herself. But, for that, B’Elanna would have to tell her mother the names that Daniel Byrd had been saying and about the rude pictures he’d been drawing. B’Elanna didn’t want to repeat those words or think about the pictures. Her mother wouldn’t understand anyway. She didn’t know what it was like to be the only kid in the school who was different. The only kid who wasn’t normal. At least winter was coming and B’Elanna would soon be able to wear her warm wool hat, which covered her forehead. Maybe she could ask to keep it on indoors. The heating in school was never turned up quite high enough and B’Elanna was always a little cold.

“Miss Turtlehead” was a name that stuck. B’Elanna had hoped that, after a weekend away from the school, Daniel might forget about it. But, no. It even caught on with some of the other kids, and those that didn’t say it wouldn’t do anything to stop the rest. The whispering and giggling was even worse than the outright shouting. “We’re not talking about you,” some of the less brazen kids would insist when B’Elanna looked as if she was going to turn on them, staring fiercely with her fists clenched.

Miss Malvin was thrilled when Daniel kept putting his hand up to ask more questions about turtles. He was keen to know everything about them: what they ate, what ate them, and if there were turtles anywhere apart from on Earth. Like Vulcan. Or Qo’noS, maybe? Miss Malvin was clueless to the laughing that followed. B’Elanna wanted to shrink to the size of a Rafalian mouse and run out of the door. Or turn invisible. Perhaps she could build a personal cloaking device to hide while she plotted to get her revenge.

Daniel Byrd always got first chance on the gyro-swing at recess. B’Elanna didn’t care about that. Swings were for babies, not nine year olds. But she did find it interesting to watch how the swing worked. How the parts fitted together, and how, with a few stem bolts removed, the swing could be taken apart. The centrifugal governor was the most important piece of the mechanism. Without it, the swing would rotate too fast and cause serious injuries. The forces would put so much strain on the body that muscles and joints would tear apart. Daniel Byrd wouldn’t know that. He wouldn’t even notice if the governor was disengaged. The little _taHqeq_ probably couldn’t even spell the words.

B’Elanna could get to the swing first when the bell rang to let the kids out to play. Daniel Byrd was fast, but B’Elanna was even faster – when she wanted to be. And, with a few quick adjustments with the hydrospanner she’d pocketed from the workshop, the centrifugal governor would be uncoupled before Daniel could get near enough to see what she was up to. When he got to the swing, she would jump off without a word, letting him think he’d got his way. As usual.

And she would stand off to the side.

And wait.


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

Klingon rituals were pointless, outdated and hateful. For a start, the food involved was disgusting; those dishes that B’Elanna could stand to actually put in her mouth and swallow made her want to puke. The stupid list of what she was and wasn’t allowed to do because of some random date on the calendar was really pissing her off, and the incense that had been burning all that week in the living room had made the whole house stink (‘expeller of demons’ – seriously?). More than once, B’Elanna had found herself hoping that the house’s fire suppression system would take as much offense to the fumes as she did herself and activate the sprinklers in the ceiling, dousing her mother with water.

“You must honour the traditions of our people, B’Elanna.”

It was a tired (and inaccurate) old tune. _Our_ people. They were her mother’s people, the Klingons. B’Elanna was a Federation citizen, not a daughter of the Empire. She dressed like a human, behaved (generally) as a human, and was living amongst humans and other non-Klingons. After that hellish stint at the monastery on Qo’noS, she was attending a Federation school again. And when high school was over, she hoped to be accepted by Starfleet to take the engineering track at the Academy. In Starfleet, where a hundred species lived and served together, travelling to the farthest reaches of the Quadrant, and encountering far more interesting physiological specimens than a human-Klingon hybrid, a half-human, half-Klingon engineer wouldn’t raise any eyebrows. In Starfleet, anyone could fit in.   

This particular afternoon, B’Elanna had come home from school and entered the house to be greeted by the sound of chanting from the living room: her mother reciting (from memory, no doubt) some litany against fear and cowardice. B’Elanna kicked off her shoes and stomped straight upstairs without so much as a hello. It wouldn’t do to interrupt anyway. She closed the door to her bedroom. The noise cut out, unable to penetrate the soundproof material. Which also meant that she didn’t hear the approaching footsteps of her mother, come to summon her to partake in the inane ritual that was required for today.

“I have a chemistry paper due tomorrow,” B’Elanna protested as the door snapped open for her mother to enter. “I don’t have time for some stupid ceremony.” If she was to meet the exacting academic standards set by the Academy’s entrance board, top grades were essential. There might be three more years of high school left, but it was never too early to stay on top of the class in math and science (and work towards acceptable grades in everything else).

“The rite of _tagh’DIS_ is not stupid,” her mother lectured. “I will not have you speak of it in such a disrespectful tone.”   

The confrontation escalated from there. The Klingon language has over ten words for ‘battle’.  This clash of wills could be described as a _Hargh_ : a major confrontation. That same soundproofing that was built into the internal walls of the house also insulated the neighbours from the yelling as mother and daughter fought to persuade the other of their own rightness. Miral had the advantage of volume, but B’Elanna had inherited all of her mother’s stubbornness. (And then some.) Threats of grounding, confiscation of various belongings, and cancellation of holomovies did nothing to persuade B’Elanna to take part in the chanting or the follow up, which involved toasting to Kahless with _ra’taj_. She was done with all that crap. As far as the Klingon religion was concerned, B’Elanna was happy to be a devout heretic. Kahless could piss off to _Gre’thor_ and stay there. She told her mother so in those exact words.

Miral’s eyes widened in shock like she had just seen a herd of angry targs running towards her. Shock turned to fury. B’Elanna had never seen her mother look quite so … Klingon. Her mother’s hand raised and drew back as if to slap her across the face, but, instead, B’Elanna’s school bag, which was still slung over her shoulder, was yanked from her with a force that nearly pulled her off her feet. Miral opened and upended the bag. PADDs, styluses and a few actual papers fell out to be strewn on the floor and kicked about as if her mother were marking a circle in dust. In a final flourish, Miral flung the empty bag over B’Elanna’s head. It collided with the far wall and dropped down on top of her desk.        

“These things will feed your mind, but they will not sustain your soul,” Miral snarled, gesturing at the pile on the floor, kicking again at a PADD for good measure. “The Day of Honour is coming. You will reflect then on your shameful behaviour, but you will apologise to me right now!”

B’Elanna struggled to breathe, rage boiling her insides, her fists clenched. The urge to lash out at her mother was overwhelming, but instead she channelled her anger into her words again. “You have got to be kidding!” she shouted. “I’m never going to have anything more to do with your stupid Day of Honour or anything Klingon ever again. You just try and make me.” And crossing her arms across her chest, she stared her mother in the eyes, unflinchingly. When her mother was the first to look away, B’Elanna was at first surprised, then filled with a deep sense of triumph. A few damaged PADDs were a small price to pay for getting her mother off her back. It didn’t matter too much if the PADDs were damaged; the files were backed up on the school’s server. The handwritten technical drawings for Mr. Chan, the physics teacher, might have to be re-done though; the guy was a stickler for proper presentation. But still, it was a fair trade.

Now instead of subjecting her daughter to a fierce glare, Miral would not look at B’Elanna. Shaking her head gently and glancing around the room, looking anywhere but at her daughter she almost whispered, “Clean up this mess.” Those were the last words she uttered to B’Elanna for the next two weeks. B’Elanna’s satisfaction turned to frustration, then to resignation, and, in the second week, to a guilt that she didn’t especially want to acknowledge and a feeling of rejection about which she pretended not to care. Her mother wasn’t just angry; she was hurt. Well, she’d get over it. It was hardly the first time her expectations hadn’t been met.

On the fifteenth day, seemingly at random, normal (dysfunctional) relations resumed. B’Elanna was chastised for leaving a window open, which allowed the neighbour’s cat to get in and eat from a plate of _gagh_ that was on the kitchen counter. That cat had really lousy taste.

Three more years. Three more years and she would be free to do whatever the hell she wanted. And if her mother didn’t like it, that was just too bad. B’Elanna’s life was her own to live.

She would decide for herself who she wanted to be.

And what she wanted to believe in.


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

Mountain survival training in conjunction with a geology field trip made Cadet Torres tetchy. And for someone whose mood setting had, most lately, been a tenuous composure at best, tetchy was the top of a steep downhill slope to extreme irritability.

Six months into her first year at the Academy, and so far it had been an endless barrage of rules, tests and inspections. The academic program seemed to have been designed more for the purpose of Starfleet learning about their cadets - their strengths, weaknesses and limitations - rather than for the cadets to actually acquire any knowledge for themselves.

_Ex astris scientia_ : that was a joke. The preparatory program before entry proper had been seductively interesting, with classes in basic warp design, astrophysics and temporal mechanics that B’Elanna had excelled in. There had even been a shuttle trip to the Jovian moons. So far, since formal entry, the only useful things she had learned were which of her fellow cadets were a complete waste of space and which few were worth expending any effort on getting to know.

There’d been plenty of opportunity for that during the many team-building exercises. Those cadets who hoped to later head for command positions, inevitably strove to demonstrate their promising leadership skills. They ranged from effective organisers, like Max Burke (B’Elanna had no problem with them), to those who were all mouth and no brain, such as Richard Pratt. (Those B’Elanna gave short shrift to. Vocally.)

Mountain survival training. Her class’s stay in the British Isles might only be for a week, but that was plenty long enough for someone whose physiology made a breezy winter’s day in San Francisco seem like Andoria.

To make matters worse, she’d had the rotten luck to be assigned to a group including Pratt, Nilsen and Talok. So, Talok wasn’t _that_ bad. At least as a Vulcan he was fairly predictable, even if his tedious rambling about Ordovician igneous rocks and some ‘fascinating’ erosional feature called a roche moutonnée was boring her to tears. The other two men were both Earth natives: Pratt, a vulgar Englishman who spoke as if he had a plum in his mouth, and Nilsen, another European, who was even more insufferable than usual at the moment as he boasted about his cross-country skiing and fjord trekking experience from a childhood back in Norway. Pratt and his ‘wingman’ Nilsen had gained quite a reputation for their extracurricular activities, boasting shamelessly about their multispecies ‘conquests’. Pratt, in particular, seemed to be under the delusion that his notoriety made him worthy of B’Elanna’s attention. He had started out by subjecting her to minor flirting, and, when all his more subtle advances had been rebuffed, he’d become gradually more obnoxious. Half-Klingon would be one box that would remain unchecked on his list of targets.

The only time this week that she could enjoy some much coveted solitude was at night, when she crawled into her single-person tent and zipped it closed against both her companions and the elements. In actuality, the region the cadets had been sent to wasn’t a particularly extreme environment compared to many of the mountain ranges on Earth. The highest peaks were only a mere thousand metres above sea level and the climate was temperate, usually more damp than icy, warmed by the Gulf Stream coming across the Atlantic. They were only first year cadets, after all, and this exercise would help prepare them for the notoriously tough unannounced survival exercises later on in their studies. This year had delivered an unusually cold winter in these parts, and the Academy tutors in their wisdom had (‘for efficiency’) decided to combine a field trip from Geology 101 with the introduction to survival skills in one hit. It seemed a bit unnecessary when one could transport to any location on the planet in seconds. But transporter – even shuttle – use was out this week. To top things off, when they’d finished trekking through the frosty wilderness, they’d all take the maglev train to London for a series of lectures on Earth’s military history. What use would that be to a starship engineer?

Professor Zakarian had given a series of briefings on mountaineering equipment use and potential dangers, stressing the need for teamwork. His rhetoric was interrupted by frequent bouts of sneezing, which Pratt and Nilsen sitting in their usual spot behind B’Elanna in the lecture theatre had found highly amusing. Professor Schmitt, the geologist, had held seminars on the Palaeozoic era and Quaternary Period, highly excited by the fact that their excursion would take them to the namesake of the Cambrian Period. Gear was distributed and the class had transported from San Francisco to a small town on the west coast of Wales that had some unpronounceable, and (according to Pratt) almost Klingon-sounding name. From there began a multi-stage trek into the mountains leaving all signs of human habitation behind.

Dressed in their silver and red cold weather suits, with artificial fur-lined hoods and somewhat unnecessary goggles, the cadets and their instructors trudged along, each carrying a heavy pack of supplies. Should an emergency occur, the group would never be more than twenty kilometres from civilization, but each cadet carried a locator beacon as a precaution.

Navigating the old-fashioned way with maps and compasses rather than GPS, B’Elanna’s group made steady progress. The terrain was challenging in places - and she had blisters on both feet from her ill-fitting boots - but they arrived at their target rest stops on schedule every night. B’Elanna followed every directive given to her by the instructors, dutifully recording notes on glacial erosion, using her tricorder and observational skills to determine the mineral content of scree and cliff faces, even trying to show some enthusiasm for the tasks. She’d behaved impeccably, like a model cadet, until, on the fifth afternoon, the group had paused by a narrow stone bridge to wait for the stragglers. The parapets - at waist height for the majority of the group - made a convenient seat on which to rest their legs, eat the tasteless Starfleet ration bars and grab a drink. B’Elanna did so with frozen fingers, the heavy gloves proving too cumbersome to keep on. Pratt ogled her from the opposite, upstream side of the bridge, smirking as he insisted in his usual leering tone that if B’Elanna wanted to share his tent that night he would show her the best way to keep warm. It was the culmination of his weeks-long campaign.

Cold and miserable, B’Elanna had reached her tolerance limit. She stood, dropping her half-eaten ration bar to the ground. In one stride she was across the track and had Pratt by the throat. It was anyone’s guess who was the more surprised, him or her as he toppled backwards, smirk replaced by a look of shock. A couple of metres below, icy water rushed along, the river swollen by snow melting up at the higher altitudes. The clean, clear water was deep enough that the stones on the river bed were obscured. The depth of the water saved him from hitting the rocky bottom, but the strong current dragged him under the bridge. Snapping back to some semblance of awareness, B’Elanna crossed back to the downstream parapet and peered over the side. Pratt flailed about, just managing to keep his head above the water, as it carried him away downstream.

Talok, who had been standing to B’Elanna’s left, quickly pulled a reel of static rope from his pack and sprinted down the riverbank. B’Elanna, shaking from shock, found herself confronted by Nilsen. Too cowardly to think of actually helping his friend, the infuriating Norwegian turned on her with a string of invectives and had to be restrained by Burke, who’d appeared from nowhere to B’Elanna’s side. Nilsen, realising that he wasn’t getting past Burke, finally jogged off to see what was happening with his buddy. B’Elanna moved to follow but was stopped by a hand on her elbow. Burke. The guy had some guts given her current volatility. Shaking his head gravely, Burke implored her to stay back.

From her vantage point, she watched as Talok, with calm authority, pushed one end of the rope into the hands of a tall Ktarian cadet who was preparing to jump into the river herself. Tying the other end securely around his waist, the Vulcan carefully climbed down into the water and waded out until at waist depth he was caught by the current. Pratt had managed to moor himself precariously on a cluster of boulders jutting above the surface. With a combination of swimming (what passed for swimming in the treacherous conditions) and drag, the Vulcan reached Pratt’s location and caught hold of the struggling human. The Ktarian on the bank had, in the meantime, been joined by a cluster of fellow cadets and an instructor. By combined effort they pulled the two shivering men to safety.

One instructor was in the midst of the first aid effort, stripping the sodden clothing from the two swimmers and calling for blankets. B’Elanna spied Nilsen gesticulating wildly at the other instructor, Schmitt. He turned in her direction and headed her way. Shit.   

Throwing her tormentor into the river had not been B’Elanna’s intention. It was an accident. If Pratt hadn’t been such a clumsy bastard - if he hadn’t provoked her in the first place – he’d still be sitting there eating his lunch, safe and dry.

Having already been suspended once for losing her cool during a dormitory inspection, B’Elanna was being carefully monitored. This particular incident was not going to go down too well with the disciplinary board. So, it was quite a surprise when her actions didn’t result in a permanent expulsion. She had almost accepted being kicked out as inevitable, even going so far as to enquire about opportunities for tech work in the many transportation hubs dotted around the planet. Her first conclusion was that the board was making allowances for her, perhaps in some well-meaning attempt to show that Starfleet really was an equal opportunities employer. Only one Klingon had ever graduated from the Academy. A second, albeit half-Klingon, would be quite a public relations coup.

It turned out that when questioned, several of her fellow cadets had stated that they’d witnessed ongoing provocation, and regardless, that Pratt had lost his balance and fallen back, rather than been intentionally pushed into the river. No lasting injuries had been suffered by him or his Vulcan rescuer. When B’Elanna returned to class after a three day suspension (at least she got out of those history lectures), she didn’t have to endure the unwanted attentions of the vile _petaQ_ again. He and his friends made every effort to stay as far away from her as possible. It was a small victory. Until the next time her temper flared uncontrollably.  

Three more years. How the hell was she going to last another three years here?

And did she even want to?


	4. Chapter 4

**4**

“Torres.”

Meyer’s voice cut through the dissonant thundering of her pulse in her ringing ears.

Her pulse. Racing.

In stark contrast to that of the man prone and motionless before her. The man whose chest she pounded with her fist again and again. Another muffled thwack. And another. As she tried to beat the life back into him.

“Torres!”

A hand rested lightly on her shoulder. Throwing it off she resumed her futile efforts to resuscitate Forel Jolan. Trail of bloods ran from his wrinkled nose, both ears and mouth. His bloodshot eyes stared blankly upwards. One leg was torn off just below the knee.

She felt a crunch. His bones, softer than hers. Sternum. Or ribs. A wave of nausea washed over her. Sucking in a slow, dusty breath, she somehow managed not to vomit.

“B’Elanna!”

He didn’t deserve to go out like this. Nobody did.

Exhausted now, bloody and shaking, B’Elanna sagged back on her knees. Meyer crouched beside her, reached forward and closed the dead Bajoran’s eyes.

“There was nothing you could have done. From the looks of it, the blast killed him instantly.”

B’Elanna shook her head. Bad idea. The bunker around her began to spin wildly. Fuzzy black dots pricked her vision.

When she’d picked herself up from where the blast had dropped her, when she’d crawled over to Forel and rolled him onto his back, he’d looked up at her, stunned and terrified, but still clinging to life. She’d watched helplessly as he took his last shallow breaths and then stilled.

“We need to get you to a medic.” Meyer gently manoeuvred her onto her feet. Bad idea. She swayed, legs like Jell-O. Meyer held her steady.

“One of the detonators…there must have been a malfunction,” she managed to croak through the dirt coating her mouth and throat.

“Maybe,” Meyer replied. “Or Henley wired it up wrong.”

“No. Seska wired them all,” B’Elanna corrected him. “The mechanism must have failed.” Seska was a competent technician. She knew what she was doing. And she’d be devastated when she heard that another of her fellow Bajorans was dead. In any case, there would be no way to determine the exact cause of the accident. The detonator had been vaporised in the explosion.

Whatever had happened, Forel was dead.

Still supporting B’Elanna with one arm, Meyer reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a flask. He flipped open the cap and raised it to her mouth. She drank the water greedily. “Thanks.” Turning to look at him properly, she saw that he too was covered in dust and grime, his jet black hair now a powdery grey. Her stomachs lurched. “The others?”

“All fine,” he assured her. “Yosa has a few cuts and bruises. Tabor doesn’t have a scratch as per usual. You caught the worst of it back here.”

Tabor and Yosa arrived then, both breaking into wide smiles when they saw B’Elanna on her feet, their faces falling in anguish when they noticed the mangled body on the floor. It was supposed to be a routine mission. Lay the charges and trigger them remotely. Destroy the bunker before the Cardassians could make use of it.

B’Elanna hadn’t known the dead man long. But living in such close quarters as they’d been, camaraderie blossomed quickly, accentuated by the shared experiences of war. She knew about Forel’s childhood on Bajor and the new life he’d enjoyed on Salva IV, until the Cardassians had forcibly evicted him and the other colonists. Tabor and Forel had been recruited into the Maquis together, both survivors of some of the worst Cardassian atrocities during the Occupation. It was rare to see either of the pair without the other by his side.

Tabor knelt by his friend. “We’re not leaving him down here.” Yosa helped him lift the dead man onto his shoulders. B’Elanna wasn’t squeamish, but her knees threatened to buckle as she saw Yosa retrieve Forel’s severed limb and wrap it in his jacket. They’d bury him topside. All of him.

When her injuries had been treated, distress turned to anger. Forel’s death might have been an accident, but if the Cardassians hadn’t given the Maquis reason to be fighting in the first place, good men like Forel wouldn’t have to sacrifice themselves. Good men like Tabor, who’d already endured far too much suffering, wouldn’t be subjected to even more.

It made her blood boil. 

###

“Torres.”

Meyer’s voice boomed over the thwack of her fists on the motionless body in front of her. She ignored him, continuing to rain down rage onto the Cardassian’s chest.

“Torres!”

A blow to the head for good measure. Something cracked as her right hand made contact with the bony ridges surrounding his left eye. A finger - maybe two - broken. Raising her left hand, she prepared to strike again.

“B’Elanna!”

She paused and forced a deep breath as she felt Meyer’s hand tight on her shoulder.

“He’s dead. Stop it.”

So he was.

She felt cheated.

###

Two days after losing Forel, the _Val Jean_ had intercepted a Cardassian freighter just inside the DMZ. Intel said it was carrying supplies to Cardassian troops on Quatal Prime. The freighter was no match for the Maquis raider, which had quickly disabled the Cardassian ship’s shields and weapons. B’Elanna had begged to join the boarding party. Chakotay was sceptical; there was no need for an engineer to transport to the other vessel. If Meyer decided she was needed, he’d ask for her.

Meyer and Ayala led the assault. Dalby took a phaser burn to the leg, but otherwise the Maquis suffered no casualties. Three Cardassians including the captain were killed in the firefight. A call came over; the Cardassians had sabotaged the engines. The survivors wouldn’t say how. Suder was keen to encourage them to talk. Chakotay preferred to send B’Elanna over to find a non-violent solution to the problem.

When she materialised in the engine room, Meyer was waiting for her. The prisoners were out of the way, under guard on the bridge. Chakotay hadn’t decided what to do with them yet.

B’Elanna set to work interfacing the liberated Starfleet diagnostic tech in her tool kit with the freighter’s engine control console. The cause of the engine failure appeared to be a software bug rather than any physical damage. Meyer decided he’d be more use in the cargo bay helping Tabor identify potentially useful cargo to tag for transport just in case the ship couldn’t be moved. He left B’Elanna to work alone.

It was the smell that alerted her to the approaching danger. As soon as she’d arrived on board, the distinctive scent that seemed to linger around everything Cardassian filled her nose. Within a few minutes she’d acclimated and the unpleasant odour faded. When it intensified again, a prickle ran down the back of her neck. Her heart rate accelerated. She snapped around to see a hulking Cardassian stalking barefoot towards her.

He reached for her throat. She swiped at him with the tricorder in her hand. Dodging backwards he grasped for the fire extinguisher hanging on the nearby bulkhead. As he came at her again, she spotted Meyer in the open hatchway behind him, phaser drawn. Meyer fired. The Cardassian sagged forwards against B’Elanna. She threw him off in disgust.

Then she made damn sure he was no longer a threat.

###

Later, back on the _Val Jean_ , still buzzing with adrenaline as she lay in her bunk unable to sleep, she wondered how long she would have kept up the beating if Meyer hadn’t stopped her. Until every one of her fingers was broken? Until disabling the enemy had escalated to desecration of a corpse? She didn’t want to end up like Dalby. Or Suder…

For the first time in her life she felt like she belonged. It may not have been her home that the Cardassians had invaded. Nor her family that had been tortured and murdered by the evil bastards. But the Maquis cause was something she could believe in.

Here she could be useful.

This was where she wanted to be.


	5. Chapter 5

**5.**

On days like this, she’d give anything to be back in the DMZ. Sure, fighting the Cardassians had been dangerous. But, so far, the Delta Quadrant wasn’t exactly a picnic either. And, as well as the hostile aliens and hazardous spatial phenomena, there was the stress of fitting into a system that she’d dropped out of for a very good reason. Starfleet and B’Elanna Torres just did not mesh.

She’d spent all afternoon up to her elbows in thorium grease after a supply line had leaked in Jefferies tube thirty-two. How the hell that had happened on a ship as new as _Voyager_ was anyone’s guess, which was why she’d wanted to check it out personally in case it was symptomatic of a more widespread structural problem. Stranger still, the leakage hadn’t originated at a junction point, but right in the middle of a long stretch of conduit. It was almost as if something had chewed right through it.

When she’d finally got back to her quarters two hours after her shift had officially ended, the overhead lights had come on, flickered and died. Then her replicator had churned out a plate of Jibelian berry salad when she’d ordered potato salad, and, even though she’d soon isolated and fixed the software glitch, she had no rations left to order a replacement - not if she wanted a drink later. Finally, when she headed into the bathroom for a soothing hot shower, the water was barely tepid.

So, she’d come to Sandrine’s for a quiet drink with Ayala and Tabor.  God knows, she needed a drink after the day she’d had. Three of the Starfleet engineers had filed complaints about her – anonymously, but it didn’t take a genius to work out their identities. She’d lost her temper yesterday when the lateral plasma conduit had been knocked out of alignment and she’d used some choice language in the process. Of course nobody swore in Starfleet, the over-sensitive … bootlickers. In the Maquis if something wasn’t done right, a bit of forceful verbal _encouragement_ usually made sure the mistake was fixed pretty damn quickly and never repeated. It wasn’t as if she’d punched anyone in the nose. This time.

But, Starfleet with all their pedantic form filling, and report writing, and ‘respect for all’ attitude … on days like this it especially pissed her off. Respect had to be earned, didn’t it? And, so far, when it came to the particular officers involved - the _complainants_ , the incident report form read - well, it was a mystery as to how they’d ever managed to graduate from the Academy. Inept was too good a word for them. The enlisted Starfleet engineers like Crewmen Boylan and Darwin weren’t so bad. Darwin was, in fact, extremely competent. Almost as good as Bendera or Hogan when it came to getting the job done with minimum fuss. Darwin would have got on just fine in the Maquis. But some of the ensigns and lieutenants … how the hell was she going to build up any sort of rapport with them?

Carey was on the night shift most of the time now. That suited both him and herself. Despite their reconciliation, she still felt a little weird giving him orders. Maybe she could just get Chakotay to move the troublemakers onto Carey’s shift. They’d probably be happier working under Carey. But then she might end up spending the first hour of every day cleaning up their collective mess. It was quite the problem.

Janeway had delegated the task of handling the complaint to Chakotay. He certainly didn’t give B’Elanna an easy time, whining on about teamwork and integration for half the morning and reminding her that she was the chief engineer on a state of the art, _Intrepid_ -class starship now, not a Maquis raider. He understood it was a difficult adjustment. No formal note would be made on her record. What did she care anyway? OK, so a good service record might help in mitigation when it came to sentencing in her trial for terrorism, but, at this rate, by the time _Voyager_ got back to Federation space, she might well have died of old age. If a workplace accident through her colleagues’ incompetence didn’t get her first.

So, she’d been sat at the holographic bar drinking a glass of Ktarian merlot, musing with Ayala on the merits and shortcomings of the new galley, and feeling generally miserable.

She had to (grudgingly) give Paris credit for his newly created holoprogram. Sandrine’s was extremely atmospheric. For a few (very) brief moments she could forget where she really was and how she’d ended up here. And whose fault it was.

In her calmer moments she could, of course, understand the Captain’s reasoning for destroying the Caretaker’s Array. Obviously, it would have been bad if the Kazon had got their grubby hands on the technology and used it to wipe out the Ocampa. Really bad. But what about Starfleet’s almighty Prime Directive? On days like this, the finger of blame for the Maquis’ exile in the Delta Quadrant was pointed squarely at Janeway. At first. By the afternoon, B’Elanna found herself moving on to blame Chakotay for surrendering to the Starfleet captain’s wishes. Then, by the evening, she would focus her anger at whoever happened to say the wrong thing, or walk past her in the corridor, or look at her the wrong way.

When Paris had elbowed in beside her, lounged against the bar in that self-important way of his, and challenged her to a game of pool, she’d been unable to decline without losing face.

He’d already seen off challenges from Harry Kim, Jackson and one of the Delaney sisters. (B’Elanna still couldn’t tell them apart.) Pool was a game of geometry and classical mechanics. B’Elanna was sure her sense of math was better than Paris’s, even if he’d had more practise at the game than she had. And it would only take ten minutes tops. Any opportunity to make Tom Paris look stupid wasn’t to be missed. So, she left her drink half-finished on the bar and took the offered cue.

B’Elanna won the toss and chose to break. She started well but missed her third shot and Paris soon took over. The entire game was accompanied by a commentary from him loaded with innuendos. The first couple, she had to admit, were moderately amusing. But, after that, her patience started to wear thin. She didn’t like the way he stood off behind her as she was lining up her shots. Or the way he looked up at her with those bright blue eyes and smirked as she watched him line up his own.

A crowd gathered: Starfleet on one side of the table, Maquis on the other. Well, mostly. The lines had started to blur in recent weeks. Paris had made great roads into ingratiating himself with the Starfleet crew members. He even seemed to have found favour with many of the Maquis. Whenever a sizable group gathered, be it in the mess hall or the holodeck, they seemed to still naturally divide into separate factions, but a few more weeks and perhaps the amalgamation of the two crews would be complete. Desperate times and all that.

“Best of three?” Paris offered after B’Elanna lost the first game. She agreed without reservation and won the second. Just. Paris really was a skilled player. He certainly knew what to do with a cue.

The last game was close, but on a couple of shots she had the distinct impression he might be deliberately missing just to eke out play for a little longer. And – or - to give her a chance. But then he won anyway to hearty slaps on the back from several of the Starfleet officers. Including the three responsible for her earlier chewing out: Blain, Farley and Fernandez. Seeing their smug faces trying not to catch her eye, but clearly enjoying her defeat, she thrust her cue into Paris’s empty left hand. Congratulating herself for not snapping it in two and bashing someone over the head with the pieces, she marched out of the holodeck. She’d had quite enough mingling for one day. Time to enjoy her own company in the peace of her quarters.

Paris wasn’t done.

“How about another couple of games? Make it the best of five?” he called out from behind her in the otherwise empty corridor.

She turned and glared, “No, thanks,” and continued on her way.

Paris had the nerve to follow. “Oh come on, B’Elanna,” he drawled. “Don’t be a sore loser.”

Reeling around, she snapped, “I am _not_ a sore loser. But you … you’re … an obnoxious, slimy _petaQ_!” Paris visibly gulped. She’d startled herself a little with the ferocity of her put down, but, on days like this, people should know better than to mess with her. They’d learn. Leaving him standing there aghast she continued to the turbolift at a brisk pace. The lift took an age to come. That pissed her off further. Would Paris report her too? She didn’t think so, but she was going to have to find an outlet for her temper that didn’t involve hurling insults or worse at her fellow crewmembers. A few track laps might help, but with Sandrine’s running in holodeck one, and holodeck two occupied by Tuvok (she couldn’t imagine what he was up to in there. Vulcans didn’t require entertainment, did they?) such exercise therapy was out for tonight.

By the time she entered her quarters, the stack of PADDs on her desk and the bowl of Talaxian tomatoes that Kes had given her stood no chance. She hurled each of them consecutively into the bulkhead. The PADDs bounced off undamaged. The bowl wasn’t so lucky. Neither were the tomatoes.

A chair was upended, her desk too, and the plate of salad leftover from earlier soon followed. It was, perhaps, a good thing that she didn’t have more personal belongings, but what few she’d accumulated in the Maquis had been lost when Chakotay had sent the _Val Jean_ on its collision course with the Array.

She stamped on the broken pieces of crockery until her feet hurt, then removed her boots and flung them against the window for good measure.    

There was a fair bit of mess to clean up; her quarters looked like a herd of rabid targs had passed through.

But she really did feel better.


	6. Chapter 6

**6.**

“It’s … fine. I’m not mad at you.”

It _wasn’t_ fine, though. Was it? She _was_ mad at him… wasn’t she?

The typical signs - the aura - that preceded the loss of control didn’t seem to be imposing upon her. The rapidly increasing heart rate, the tightness in her jaw, the heat building from her chest and racing up her neck until she felt her mind was likely to spontaneously combust unless she vented her rage … she was experiencing none of those. Something was wrong. There was no caustic remark ready to trip off her tongue. No urge to clench her fists tightly around her knife and fork and slam them down on the table in front of her. She hadn’t even dropped the cutlery in order to fold her arms across her chest. This reaction – lack of reaction – wasn’t normal. Not for her.

Tom looked unconvinced by her assurances. “Really? You’re sure you’re not angry?”

No. She wasn’t sure. Confused, yes. Sure, no. “I’m not _angry_ ,” she said, hearing surprise now in her tone that complemented the scepticism in his. Maybe she was coming down with something. Flu, perhaps. Though it was only a few days since she’d last dropped by sickbay. Surely the Doctor would have detected if she were incubating a virus?

“It’s OK if you want to yell at me,” Tom said, appraising her carefully.

But she didn’t. She really didn’t. It was as refreshing as it was confusing.

It couldn’t be the meditation. It had been a couple of months since her last session with ‘Counsellor’ Tuvok. She was supposed to be practising the techniques he’d taught her, but sitting cross-legged on the floor, visualising a flame and counting backwards, was not her idea of anger management. When her mandatory sessions had all been completed, she’d hardly given Tuvok’s advice another thought. Yet, here she was calmer than a sleeping Vulcan, feeling nothing more than slight irritation at what Tom had just confessed to her. Raising an eyebrow at him, she waved her fork to direct his attention to the other diners present. “We’re in the mess hall. I’m not going to start yelling.”

“Having an audience hasn’t stopped you in the past,” Tom quipped, raising an eyebrow himself.

At that she did feel a surge of something more intense than slight irritation. And it was reassuring in a way. After the disturbing numbness she’d experienced following the news of the Maquis back in the Alpha Quadrant, feeling anything again had been preferable to remaining in that state. There would always be a small worry at the back of her mind that she would suffer a relapse. It would be better to be lose her temper every day of the week than to fall back into another such emotional coma.

But, by the time she’d set down her knife, the surge had passed, replaced with genuine amusement. Not that Tom needed to know that just yet. Holding what she hoped was a neutral expression, she dropped her fork onto her plate with an exaggerated clatter. The occupants of the nearest table who happened to be the ever inquisitive Delaney sisters, glanced over at the noise then quickly averted their gazes. Tom looked to be reconsidering the wisdom of his ‘audience’ remark. She let the silence hang between them for a long moment, thinking carefully.

“Would you feel less guilty if I’d overreacted?” she asked, careful to keep her voice low. They were out of earshot from most of the other diners with, perhaps, the exception of Vorik with his exceptional hearing. The engineer sat on the other side of the room reading from a PADD whilst he drank a mug of something – Vulcan spice tea, most likely.

Tom frowned. “I don’t get it.”

Slowly, pointedly, B’Elanna crossed her arms, holding Tom’s gaze all the while. “If I lose my temper and yell at you, you’ll get cross with me for overreacting. And if you’re cross with me, you’ll feel less guilty about what you did.” She couldn’t help smiling a little. Whilst she didn’t want to make him _suffer_ as such, it wouldn’t harm for him to sweat a little. Tom appeared even more baffled.

“It’s … an interesting theory,” he acknowledged. “But … it doesn’t really sound like you. Are you feeling all right?”

“I think I am, actually,” she said, directing a habitual scowl at Jenny Delaney over Tom’s shoulder before looking back to him. “I just … don’t feel like getting mad at you this time. You owned up before I had to go accuse Seven of carrying out ‘research’ by spying on me again. So, it could have been worse.”     

“Yeah, I’ve done worse,” Tom agreed, resuming his attack on whatever Neelix was calling lunch today, some kind of greeny-brown slop. B’Elanna had chosen breakfast leftovers instead. At least the pancakes and scrambled ‘eggs’, whilst a little soggy, resembled food rather than something that might ooze from the innards of a Malon export vessel.

“Oh, don’t think I’m letting you off the hook,” she countered. “Just because I’m not losing my temper doesn’t mean I’m not annoyed with you.”

Tom paused, slop dripping from his spoon back onto his plate. “You just said it was fine!”

B’Elanna shrugged. “Well, _fine_ was a poorly chosen word. But I’m not _angry_.”

Tom shook his head ever so slightly, eyes narrowing. B’Elanna picked up her cutlery again and resumed eating. “I just can’t understand what possessed you to tell Seven of all people,” she muttered between mouthfuls.

“I was making conversation. I didn’t think she’d go telling anyone. Seven’s hardly the biggest gossip on the ship. She doesn’t really go in for chit-chat.”

“But she’s taking social lessons with the Doctor. And you know damn well that gossip is the one social skill that _he_ excels at.”

“Again, I had no reason to think Seven would mention it to anyone. If she hadn’t told the Doc then it would never have gone any further.”

“You know what she’s like. She can’t get that enhanced Borg brain of hers to understand why us mere mortals do some of the more … illogical things that we do. She probably asked the Doctor to explain it to her.”

Tom sighed. “And he told a couple of people, and they each told a few more.”

“And now it’s all over the ship.”

“Which is why I can’t understand how you’re not more … angry.”

Neither could she really. Though, Tom had been through a particularly difficult time in recent weeks having been one of the worst affected by the artificial memory engrams projected from the monument on Tarakis. Traumatic memories of atrocities were something she could definitely relate to and she’d made quite a few allowances for Tom’s erratic behaviour. Thankfully he seemed to be over the worst of it now. Perhaps the unusual degree of tolerance she was exhibiting now was a result of the extra care she’d had to take with him as he recovered. It had given her a timeout in her lifelong battle with her short temper. It was too much to hope for that she’d broken the habit of losing her composure at the slightest provocation, but it was a start. “Getting angry won’t make everyone forget what they’ve heard, will it?” she said. “I don’t think ranting will make me feel better this time either.”

“I really am sorry.”

She nodded. “Then you’ll be happy to make it up to me, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“I can think of a few things you can do for me already.”

Tom smirked. “I’ll bet.”

“Things that I’ll enjoy and you won’t,” she added quickly.

His face fell. “Oh.”

No doubt that ruled out every form of compensation he’d had in mind. This could be a prime opportunity to get him to go sunbathing with her on holographic Fiji. He’d managed to dissuade her the last few times she’d suggested it claiming that it was too boring. Even better, he could help her write up those crew performance reviews that Chakotay kept hounding her about. Not that she’d have much fun doing those, but with Tom’s help the task would take half the time. He’d only be helping her with the wording. It wasn’t as if she’d be shirking her responsibilities as head of department.

Smiling wickedly she told him, “I’ll let you know when I’ve decided.” To which he pulled a decidedly unenthusiastic expression. “And next time you feel the urge to tell anyone what I pack for an away mission, maybe you could tell them about the _qhonDoq_ or the stun grenades instead of the stuffed targ? I do have a reputation to maintain.”


End file.
